One Step Ahead
by poetanddidntknowit34
Summary: A zombie apocalypse wipes out humanity, leaving barely-acquainted co-workers Owen Carvour and Curt Mega alone. As the last men on Earth fight for survival, they become closer and begin to develop feelings for each other. But the threats of zombies and of death are always right around the corner. Good thing spies never die.
1. Chapter 1

"Mega, you fucking shithead, what would I do without you?" Cynthia Houston banged the door to Curt's office open with no warning or pretense—per usual. "You really saved our asses in Thailand this weekend."

Curt smiled and waved his hand at her. "It was no big deal, Cynthia, really. Anyone could have brought down a multi-million dollar trafficking operation with just dental floss and a handful of marbles."

"Marbles? I heard it was gumballs." Owen Carvour stuck his head in the doorway. "Either way, good show, Mega." His smile was lopsided and he stuck out a hand for Curt to shake.

"Mega, have you met Special Agent Owen Carvour?" Cynthia asked.

Curt shook Owen's hand; his grip was firmer than expected. "We've met a few times, yes. But only briefly." He let go of Owen's hand. "Your reputation precedes you, Carvour. I heard last week that you single-handedly escaped nine drug-lords in Laos."

Owen shrugged. "Eleven drug-lords. But hey, who's counting?"

"Cavour! Are you coming or what?" Agent Bryan Larsen called from down the hall. "I need to file this report so I can go home!"

"Coming!" Owen shouted over his shoulder. "Let me buy you a beer sometime, Mega. I'll dazzle you with stories of how MI6 does things."

Curt laughed. "Maybe someday, Carvour."

"Carvour!" Bryan snapped from down the hallway. "I got date night tonight! If you make me late, I'll never hear the end of it."

Owen rolled his eyes. "Bye Cynthia. Mega." He nodded at each in turn before turning to jog down the hall towards Bryan. "Cool your jets, Larsen. You'll make it home in time to improperly shag your wife."

"Shut the fuck up, Carvour." Bryan said as they turned the corner.

"Finish up your report by this evening." Cynthia said. "I need to submit it to the Vice President tomorrow morning so we can officially close the case. Don't fuck it up."

"Love you, too, Cynthia." Curt said, going to sit back down behind his desk to finish editing his case report.

Curt finally finished his write-up around 8PM and went to drop it on Cynthia's desk when he bumped into Owen in the hallway.

"Oh, hello, Mega." Own said. "Finish your report?"

"Yeah. It's the only part of the job that I hate—all the paperwork." He opened the door to Cynthia's office and dropped the thick file on her desk. "What about you? Did you finish?"

Owen sighed. "No. Larsen had to leave, so we couldn't finish, which means I'll have to delay my flight back to London until Thursday and come back here tomorrow to finish."

"Is your wife upset?"

Owen shook his head. "Not married. Though, I'm sure my cat is a little miffed." He huffed a small laugh, and they began to walk towards the exit of the building. "Hey, I'm starving." Owen said. "Where's a good place for food around here?"

"There's a bar just down the street. They've got good burgers." Curt said.

"Care to join me? I'll buy you that beer."

Curt hesitated a moment, then shrugged. Nothing wrong with getting to know a fellow spy. "Sure. I could use a drink."

The bar was dingy and poorly lit, and Curt and Owen were the only patrons apart from a very intoxicated man who was hanging on to his barstool by an inch of trouser fabric.

"Sit wherever." The bartender huffed when they walked in. "Whatcha want?"

"Guinness." Curt said, shrugging his coat off and draping it over a chair at a table near the window. "And a house burger with no ketchup."

Owen hesitated a moment, but didn't see a menu anywhere. "I'll have the same."

Owen took the chair across from Curt, and an awkward silence descended. The only sound in the bar was the TV, which was tuned to a news station. _"Witness accounts from New York, Los Angeles, Dallas, and Chicago report a strange new disease that's come about. Reports say that victims of the disease appear to die, then promptly reawake and attack anyone around them—trying to bite them. Those bitten quickly succumb to the same fate."_

Owen gestured to the TV. "What do you make of that, Mega?"

Curt turned around to look at the news report. On screen, a crazed man with blood around his mouth chased a woman on the street, before grabbing her and biting her neck. _"Video accounts show a horrifying lack of empathy from the victims of the disease. The CDC has yet to release an official cause, but their public statement to CNN advised citizens in cities where the disease has been spotted to stay inside as much as possible, and not to engage with those who have been infected."_

Curt rolled his eyes. "It's mass hysteria."

"You think so?" Owen asked as the bartender set their food and drinks down in front of them. He took a sip of his beer. "It's been going on for a few weeks in Europe now, and I heard a report that the first cases have started popping up in South America and Asia. It seems to be moving faster."

"It's mass hysteria—trust me. It probably started as a new disease, but now people are making up symptoms in their heads and the idea is spreading faster than the disease. Just watch—in a few weeks, the CDC will put out a statement about the disease, it's real symptoms, and how to treat it, and this will all be a weird memory." Curt took a massive bite out of his burger and began to chew. When he looked back at Owen, he found the other spy's dark brown eyes drilling in to him. "What?" Curt said around his burger, then looked down at his hands and shirt to see if he'd spilled something on himself.

"Nothing." Owen dropped his stare and picked up his own burger. "I just think we should all be a little more cautious about diseases we know nothing about." He took a bite of the burger and the two men fell into a comfortable silence as they ate their dinner.

"Can you find your way back to your hotel?" Curt asked as they exited the bar.

Owen squinted at the nearest intersection's signs and nodded. "Yeah, I'm just a few blocks that way." He gestured to the right. "Thanks for the recommendation—that's probably the best burger I've ever had."

Curt held out his hand. "Thanks for the beer."

Owen gripped Curt's hand in a firm shake. "See you tomorrow, Mega."

"Likewise, Carvour."


	2. Chapter 2

The alarm went off at 7AM the next morning and Curt groaned as he slammed the off button. He hadn't slept well, and he wasn't looking forward to another day of paperwork. Cynthia had a rule about "no new cases within a week of finishing the last", which meant that he was bound to his desk until Monday at the earliest. Longer if all the cool cases got doled out to other agents in the meantime.

Curt swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, stretching and listening to the bones in his spine and neck crack and re-settle. His stomach was bothering him, but that's what he gets for eating a burger at 9 o'clock last night. "I'm getting fucking old." Curt grumbled as he rubbed his stomach and shook out his stiff limbs.

As he shuffled out of his bedroom, he noticed—to his dismay or delight, he hadn't decided yet—that his legs weren't the only thing that was stiff. He palmed himself through his underwear as he wandered into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Stepping under the stream, he closed his eyes and let the water flow over him. Even though he preferred working in the field, mornings at home had a special calmness to them that he always treasured. As he worked shampoo into his hair, his mind wandered to the night before—the way that Owen had been staring at him, his intense gaze both terrifying and wonderful. Curt's cock twitched against his stomach.

"Don't even fucking start with me." Curt said. "Owen's a colleague. That's it." And he forced his mind to conjure thoughts of his most recent "drinking buddy" before allowing himself to cum.

Once Curt was dressed, he went into the kitchen, pulled a carton of orange juice from the fridge, and clicked on the television.

_"—And once you've let your souffle cool, you can decorate it!"_ The chipper voice of a morning talk show host screeched out of the TV.

"Garbage." Curt said, taking a swing from the carton of OJ and changed the channel to a news station.

_"A fire broke out in downtown New York City this morning as people infected with a mysterious disease broke out of the hospital and began attacking people on the streets."_ Curt watched a clip of diseased people grabbing and biting civilians, and he went to the living room window and threw open the blinds. Everything on the street below him was calm, but he could see black smoke rising from the direction of downtown. _"Similar fires and mass attacks have broken out all over the United States, as well as in Europe, parts of Asia, and Central and South America. The CDC and the UN advise people to stay in their homes and not to engage with the infected."_

Curt turned the TV off. "This is how we get mass panic. Quarantining people in their homes." He rolled his eyes and threw the remote on the couch before walking out the door to head to work.

Curt's walk to work was very quiet for a Wednesday in New York. He saw only one or two other people out, and the traffic was non-existent; maybe five cars on the street at any given moment. The typical sounds of New York were gone, and all Curt could hear was the wail of emergency sirens from downtown.

He was distracted by what he thought sounding like screaming over the sirens, when he turned the corner next to the agency building and bumped directly into Owen, jostling the other spy's coffee cup and spilling it on his shirt. "Oh, shit, Carvour. I'm sorry." Curt looked around, but there was nothing nearby that he could grab to help clean up the mess.

Owen had a napkin in his hand from donut he'd just finished eating, and he began to dab at the spill. "If I didn't know any better, Mega, I'd say you were trying to make me look bad in front of the Americans." He flashed one of his lopsided grins.

"It's not hot is it?"

"No, hotel lobby coffee never is." Owen sighed and looked at his coffee cup, laying forlorn on the sidewalk. "But I feel it's safe to say that you owe me a new cup."

"Fair enough." Curt said, opening the door to the agency. "I think I have a Tide stick in my desk drawer, too."

Owen went through the doors and Curt followed close behind. They hung a right down a corridor and went into the small cafeteria. A spread of donuts, bagels, fruit, and yogurts lined one wall, and Susan was standing behind the self-serve barista station next to it, fiddling with the expresso machine. "After you." Curt gestured and Owen strode across the room towards the coffee bar.

"Oh!" Susan exclaimed when he saw them. "Hi Agent Carvour! I didn't know you would be back again today. Are you here to work a case?"

Owen laughed. "No, Susan, I'm here to finish up my report on the case with Agent Larsen. My plane leaves tomorrow."

"Oh, well that's too bad. You know, Cynthia would hire you in a heartbeat if you asked. You're the best agent we have."

"Hi to you, too, Susan." Curt said with a frown.

"Oh, hey Agent Mega." Susan shot only a momentary glance at the agency's ACTUAL best agent. "Anyway, as I was saying—"

He was interrupted by screaming and gunshots in the hallway.

"What the fuck?" Curt said, drawing his weapon at the same time as Owen. Susan left the barista station and went to look out the door. "Susan, wait—"

Before Curt could stop him, Susan stepped out into the hallway, and someone grabbed him by the shoulders before leaning in to take a large chunk of flesh out of his neck.

"Fuck!" Owen yelled, discharging a round into the head of the intruder.

Curt rushed over to where Susan lay in the hallway and pushed the body off him. The body itself looked as if it had been dead for several days and no one had bothered to inform it—bloat had set in, and it had a horrible smell to it. Curt elected to ignore the impossible phenomenon and attend to Susan. "Susan, can you hear me?"

Susan didn't respond—blood was pouring out of his neck and puddling on the floor at a sickeningly rapid pace. "He's gone, Mega." Owen said, laying a hand on Curt's shoulder. We need to find—"

More screams and more gunshots came from the main hallway. "This way." Curt said, taking off down the corridor and back towards where they entered the building. When they reached the front lobby, it was a war zone. People that Curt recognized from the news as "infected" were spilling in through the front doors and crawling over each other to get to the agency staff inside. Agents were trying their best to hold off the swarm, but their guns only had so many bullets and Curt and Owen watched as the swarm drove the staff further back into the building. The lobby was a sea of dead people.

"We have to do something." Curt said, raising his gun and firing a few rounds into the heads of Infected near the door. But even as those fell, more took their place in the doorway.

"Mega, there's too many." Owen said, firing his own weapon into the swarm of Infected. "We have to fall back."

"These are my friends!" Curt said, taking a few more shots. He was down to twenty bullets in his magazine now.

"They're special agents, Mega, they can handle themselves. We have to get out." Owen began to tug on Curt's arm.

"Get fucked, Carvour, these aren't your people. It's easy for you to abandon them." Curt took another step closer to the swarm and killed five more. Fifteen bullets left.

Just then, Curt saw Cynthia on the other side of the lobby. "What in the fuckity FUCK is happening?" She yelled, firing two pistols off at a rapid pace, landing a shot between the eyes into multiple Infected. But the swarm was moving too fast, and soon, one had a hand wrapped around Cynthia's ankle, pulling her to the floor. In an instant, a wave of Infected had engulfed her.

"Cynthia!" Curt yelled, trying to take another step forward into the lobby. But Owen had a firm grip on his shoulder. Several of the Infected heard Curt yell, and they began to turn and move in his direction.

"We need to move. Now." Owen said, and this time when he tugged Curt back, Curt didn't resist. The two agents fell back into the hallway and began to jog back towards the cafeteria. "Is there another exit in this wing?" Owen asked.

"Yeah, there should be one at the end of this hall. Follow me." Curt took the lead down the hall and away from the horde that was starting to turn in their direction. Within moments, he could see the door at the end of the hall, and he had to side-step Susan's body as he ran past the cafeteria. He didn't get much further down the hall, though, before the glass on the exit door shattered and more bodies pushed themselves through the entrance, clawing over each other to get to him. "Carvour!" Curt yelled, glancing back at Owen.

"I see them." He said. "Here! Into the cafeteria." He stepped into the doorway and motioned Curt to follow. "I've got your back!"

Curt ran towards the door as Owen fired a few rounds above his head and into the Infected behind him. Curt was about to step inside the cafeteria, when something grabbed his ankle and yanked, and he hit the ground hard. Susan was Infected; he had a hold on Curt's ankle and was trying to drag his foot into his mouth. Curt tried to kick himself free, but it was no use.

"Oh Susan." Curt said. "I'm so sorry." He leveled his gun and fired.

Owen reached down and grabbed Curt by the shirt collar and yanked. The American spy slid backwards on the tile and tumbled into the cafeteria as Owen slammed the door shut behind him. "Quick, drag those tables over." Owen said as he leaned his full weight onto the door to keep it from opening. He grabbed a chair nearby and jammed it under the handle to fix it closed, then assisted Curt with dragging every table over and piling it against the door. "There." Owen said, breathing hard. "I don't think they'll be able to get in. We'll be safe here for now."

Curt strode quickly across the room and kicked a trashcan with all his might. "FUCK!" He yelled and sent a smaller recycling bin flying across the room with another kick. "FUCKING… FUCK!"

"Mega, you need to calm down." Owen said, taking a step towards him.

Curt whirled on him and closed the distance between them to poke a finger into his chest. "Don't you DARE tell me to calm down, you English asshole. I already told you: those aren't your people out there. I abandoned them because you told me to. They're going to die now, and I'm going to live. You have no idea what that feels like."

Owen shoved Curt's hand away from his chest, his eyes flashing. "Mega, don't you dare preach to me about leaving agents behind. You KNOW how much time I spend here at this agency. Cynthia was my FRIEND. We've all lost people today, and you don't get to play sanctimonious bastard about it."

He turned and stalked off across the room to stand near the door. "All we can do now is wait until it's safe to come out, then find other survivors and go from there."

Neither spoke for a while; the only sound in the room was of the Infected clawing at the door. Finally, Curt said, "Fine. I guess we wait."

"Yeah." Owen said. "We wait."


	3. Chapter 3

It had been three days since Curt and Owen had barricaded themselves in the agency's cafeteria. The scratching at the door had stopped after an hour, and Owen had hypothesized that the Infected had heard a noise somewhere else in the agency and had forgotten about them. Still, they waited three days, hoping that the extra time would cause the horde to really spread out and they wouldn't open the door to a cluster of them. On the second day, the power went out. On the third, Curt's cell phone died—not that it had been any use to them in the first place, with the channels jammed from over-use and the power going out.

Those three days had been spent in an anxious silence; Curt and Owen only exchanging a few necessary words or grunts of agreement. Neither knew what to say or what to do. So, for three days, they waited.

Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, Curt spoke. "We're running low on rations." He said, handing Owen a bowl of dry cereal. "We've got the last of this box of cereal, a jar of peanut butter, and some bread. Everything else can't be cooked without the power."

"Great." Owen said. "So we're out of options. We have to leave."

Curt popped the magazine out of his gun. "I have fourteen bullets left."

Owen checked his cartridge. "Seventeen." He clicked the magazine back into place. "Guns have to be an 'emergency only' measure, though."

"What? Why? Guns are the best option for killing these things without having to get too close."

"I agree," Owen started, "However, they're also the loudest. Did you notice how the…the infected people, they didn't even notice us until you started yelling. You created a noise, and since all the other agents were also firing their guns, it was unique to the noises around them. They're attracted to sound. So we have to be quiet."

Curt thought about this for a moment. "OK, so no guns. How do we get out of this place alive, then?"

Owen pulled a hunting knife out of his pocket. "I've got this, and I'm sure there's a knife for you in the kitchen."

Curt walked to the back of the cafeteria and around the counter to the kitchen area. He began to pull open drawers until he found a butcher's knife. "This is all I found." He said, carrying the knife back out into the common area. "But it's impractical. It's too bulky and isn't the best for stabbing." He made a stabbing motion with it.

"You're right. Plus, we need more options in case we drop our knives or it gets lodged in…" He threw his hands up in the air. "Oh fuck it, I'm just going to call them the Infected." Curt shrugged. "We need more options than just these two knives."

Curt snapped his fingers. "The evidence room! It has all the weapons we've ever confiscated from missions. Guns, knives, staffs, even a bazooka."

"We don't need a bazooka." Owen said.

"Well, yes, I know that." Curt said, only slightly disappointed. "But I'm just saying that there's a lot of options for us."

"Ok, so that's stop number one. Where's it at in the building?"

"It's on this floor, but on the south side of the building. Here—" Curt grabbed a napkin off of the coffee bar and searched for a pen. He found one in a different drawer in the kitchen. "This is what the first floor looks like." He made a rough sketch of the corridors and circled the cafeteria. "We're here. We'll have to go through the lobby and it's at the end of this hallway." He circled a spot on the opposite side of the building. "It's maybe a five-minute walk."

Owen nodded at the map. "Let's make it four."

"Three if we run."

"Three it is, Mega."

They'd made quick work of moving the tables away from the door and had put a rough plan in place—they'd make break for the evidence locker, trying to move as quietly as possible and not engaging with the Infected unless they engage first.

"Remember, Mega, no matter who you see out there, you have to keep moving. Keep your eyes on the prize."

"I know, Carvour." Curt said, adjusting the grip on his knife. "In and out." He took a deep breath. "OK. Let's do this."

Owen gripped the door handle, then quietly swung open the door and peaked out into the hallway. "Clear." He whispered. And they both began to sprint down the corridor.

The hallway leading to the lobby was empty, and the two men ran side-by-side until they reached the entrance to the lobby. There, Owen gestured for them to stop. Curt flattened himself against the wall and watched as Owen leaned around the corner to look out into the lobby.

"There's about ten Infected." He whispered. "Spread out in the space, but not actively moving. If we keep along this wall here, we should be able to slip past most of them." Owen changed the grip on his knife. "On three, we run. We won't have time to check the next hallway, so we'll just have to be prepared for the worst." Curt nodded. "One… two… three."

The two spies pushed off of the wall and Curt followed Owen around the corner. Quietly, they began to race towards the south side of the lobby. They were nearing the southern end, when Curt's foot connected with a metal water bottle someone had dropped during the swarm. The bottle made a clanging noise as it ricocheted off the floor of the lobby and skittered to rest in a corner.

The Infected in the lobby snapped to attention and locked their eyes on Curt and Owen. One began to snarl, and they began to walk towards them at a steady pace. Owen rolled his eyes. "So much for quiet." He brought his knife up. "Let's make quick work of this, shall we?" He stabbed the nearest one through the temple. The Infected made a choking sound, then fell to the floor.

"They see us, Carvour. Why don't we just shoot them?" He stabbed an approaching Infected and reached for his gun as it dropped to the floor.

"Because, Mega," Owen side-stepped an Infected that had lunged at him, planting his knife in its skull and watching it fall. "We don't know how many are in this building. I'd like to avoid bringing down a whole swarm on us." He kicked one that got too close and knocked it into two others. The three Infected stumbled backwards and through a glass coffee table—killing two and spearing one on a table leg, immobilizing it. Six down, four to go.

"I'm just saying," Curt said, walking forward and driving his large knife into the skull of another Infected. He had to shake it to dislodge the weapon, and once it was free, he barely had time to recover before the next one was nearly on top of him. He stabbed this one, too. "It's not like we're bad shots. We could've had this done in a jiffy." He watched as Owen took down the last two. The lobby was silent again.

"Mega, you're going to be the death of me, I swear." Owen rolled his eyes and turned to walk down the hallway towards the evidence room. As he looked back to speak again, an Infected stepped out of the dark hallway and grabbed Owen by the shoulders. "Shit!" Owen yelled, stumbling backwards. He lost his footing and fell backward, hitting the linoleum hard. His knife scattered out of his grasp and slid towards Curt. Owen put a hand on the Infected's throat and held on tight as the Infected snapped its teeth only inches from Owen's nose.

"Fuck." Curt said, grabbing Owen's knife off of the floor and driving it through the Infected's temple. Immediately, the Infected stopped moving, and Owen pushed it off him and clambered to his feet.

"What was that about me being the death of you?" Curt smirked as he handed Owen his knife back.

"Thanks." Owen said, using his pants to wipe the blood off his knife. "Let's keep moving." He turned and started walking down the hall again.

As they neared the evidence locker, it became apparent that they weren't the only ones who had thought of gathering weapons from the locker. The door was ajar and there was blood and bodies on the floor. "Shit." Curt whispered. "That's Larsen." He pointed to a man lying slumped against the wall near the door.

"And Callum." Owen pointed to another.

They were silent for a while, taking in the shock of what they were seeing.

Finally, Owen said, "We should gather our supplies and get out of here. We need to find somewhere safe."

The spies grabbed two backpacks off the wall and began to stuff them in silence. Curt grabbed three guns with silencers and stacked 10 boxes of ammo inside the backpack. He slung a compound bow onto his back and tucked an axe into his belt, then put two hunting knives in his pocket. Owen picked up a second hunting knife and loaded his backpack with ammo for the guns. Next, he picked up an aluminum bat and tested the weight of it in his hands. The bat was blue and had "Red" spray painted on the side…in purple. "What master criminal had a bat confiscated?"

Curt looked up from the rope he was inspecting. "Oh. Sergio Santos. Not really a 'master criminal'. He's not too bright and is mostly harmless, but he makes it a point to always have a weird weapon on him whenever we run into him. He says it's because he wants our logs to look crazy." Curt shrugged. "He's a weird guy."

Owen nodded and decided to take the bat with him. He also slid a crowbar into his belt and tossed an extra set of arrows for Curt's bow into the backpack. A box of grenades was sitting on the floor and Owen bent down to inspect them. "Who just tosses a bunch of grenades into a box? This is one of the most dangerous things I've ever seen. And I'm a fucking spy for a living!"

Curt looked over at the box. "Oh yeah. The Boom Box. We've just always had it."

Owen looked at Curt in horror. "You Americans… you're something else, I tell you." He reached into the box, picked out one of the grenades, and slipped it into his pocket.

"Carvour, why do you need a grenade?" Curt asked, setting his pack down.

"Huh?" Owen looked up from counting the boxes of ammo in his backpack.

"I watched you put a grenade in your pocket just now. What could you possibly need a grenade for?"

"Mega, in our line of work, you must know how important it is to stay one step ahead at all times. One step ahead of your enemies, your fellow spies, and especially ahead of undead flesh-eaters." Owen grinned. "I figured it might come in handy. Maybe it'll save our asses. And if I'm backed into a corner, then at least I can go out on my terms. And take a bunch of them with me."

Curt was silent for a moment. "It won't come to that."

Owen shrugged. "You have to be prepared for every possibility." He zipped up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. "Where to next? We can't stay here, but we also can't leave without an objective."

"We should go to my mom's. She's in a safe house on the edge of the city—it's close to the woods and is supposed to be stocked to withstand siege if needed." Curt shouldered his pack, too. "We can hide out there until we formulate a plan."

Owen gestured to the door. "Mom Mega's it is."


	4. Chapter 4

"How far away is the safe house?" Owen asked. They were standing in the lobby again, debating on their best course of action to get out of the city.

"It's on the edge of the city. Maybe forty-five minutes by car. A lot further if we walk…" Curt trailed off.

"It's also a lot more dangerous if we walk." Owen said. "We need to find a car. We don't know how many Infected are out on the streets, but we need to move fast and draw the least amount of attention to ourselves as possible."

"There's a cool Benz in the garage." Curt suggested. "It's flashy, but it rides silent. We use it for tracking people who are on foot. It's nearly imperceptible."

Owen smiled. "I've always wanted to drive a Benz."

"Keep wanting, Carvour." Curt said. "I know where the safe house is, so I'll be driving." He pulled the axe out of his belt and caught the handle mid-air. "You'll just have to be along for the ride."

Owen rolled his eyes. "Just lead the way."

Curt turned towards a nearby hallway and began to walk down it. His axe was raised, and he was moving slowly, as the hallway was dimly lit and he wasn't sure how many Infected were hiding in the shadows.

It was quiet, then Owen whispered, "Two o'clock." He was so close to Curt, that the hair on the back of Curt's neck stood up as Owen's breath rolled past.

"I see them." Curt spotted the two Infected against the wall to his right. They hadn't noticed the spies yet, and they were swaying slightly as they stood lifeless in the hallway. "On three. One…two…three."

The two men silently rushed the Infected. Curt's axe connected with one as Owen's bat took down the other. Blood sprayed the walls and Curt caught a spatter on his shirt. "Aww. I liked this shirt." He mumbled.

"Keep moving." Owen said, slightly out of breath from the exertion of swinging the bat.

The hallway ended in a door with a keypad. "The door's closed, which means that no one went down while the horde was swarming the building." Curt said. "So hopefully, that also means that the garage won't have any Infected in it. But, it for sure means that the door's locked. The keypad is the only way to open it, and the power's out."

"Step back." Owen said, pulling the crowbar from his belt loops and hooking it into the door jamb. He grunted with effort, and the door strained for a moment before it popped open with a metal clanging sound. "After you." He huffed.

Curt paused for a moment to dig through his bag. He pulled out one of the flashlights that he'd found in the evidence room and flicked it on, illuminating the staircase. Then, he began to slowly descend.

Once in the basement, they discovered that Curt's hunch was right: The small garage was empty of Infected. Windows near the ceiling of the cement garage lit up the area, and there were fourteen cars parked around the perimeter. A glass garage door led out to the street on one end, and a reception kiosk stood in the center.

Curt strode over to the kiosk and began to rifle through a drawer. "Ah. Here it is." He held up a remote key for a car, and when he pressed the lock button, a small beep sounded from a sleek black Benz near the stairwell.

"How are we supposed to get a car out of the garage if the power's cut?" Curt asked. "We can't open the door."

Owen opened the passenger side door and tossed his backpack on the floor. "We're going to have to ram the door, Mega. It's glass—it won't hold up against a car." Owen got in and shut his door. He made a gesture that Curt interpreted as 'come on!'.

Curt shrugged. "Sounds like a good plan to me." He opened the driver's side door and handed Owen his backpack. "Put your seatbelt on." He said as he turned the ignition and revved the engine. Owen did as he was told and grabbed onto the door handle to brace himself. "Ready?" Curt asked.

"Punch it."

The Benz shot forward and barreled towards the garage door. When it connected with the door, there was the sound of cracking glass and crunching metal, and suddenly, the Benz was out on the street, swerving widely to turn onto the main road and avoid crashing into the building across the street from the agency. It rolled to a stop.

"Woo!" Curt yelled. "We're out!"

"Save your celebrations for later, Mega. We're not out of the woods yet." Owen pointed to a small group of Infected that had heard the crash and were turning towards them. "You keep us moving; I'll keep an eye out for Infected." He dug a gun out of his backpack and began screwing a silencer onto it. Then he silenced and loaded a second gun and set it in the cupholder. "In case you need it."

"Thanks." Curt said, swinging the car around in the right direction. "We'll be out of the city in no time." He punched the gas, and the Benz sped along the city streets.

Owen scanned the intersections and sidewalks as they sped past. The streets were suspiciously empty, save for a few Infected that hadn't seemed to notice their presence. After ten minutes of silence, he began to relax a little. He watched Curt out of the corner of his eye; the hard set of the American's jaw, the slight stubble appearing on his face, the way his shirt clung to his chest…

Owen shook his head and forced his eyes forward. Now was not the time for that, nor would it ever be. Curt was just a colleague. That's it.

They rode in silence for a few more minutes, slowly approaching the edge of the city. When they reached the bridge that would take them out into the woods, Curt slammed on the brakes. "Shit." He said.

The bridge was covered in Infected—a whole swarm about a half mile in length covered the bridge with a thick sea of bodies, blocking their way out of the city.

"Fuck." Curt said. "Carvour, what do we do now?"

Owen thought for a moment, then took off his seatbelt said, "Pull up close to the edge of the swarm and park. I've got an idea."

"Are you insane?"

"Trust me, Mega. This is going to work."

Curt hesitated, then he slowly rolled to a stop about five feet from the edge of the swarm. Once the car was in park, Owen pressed the button for the sunroof and pulled himself up to stand on the center console. "What are you doing?" Curt hissed.

"Saving us." Owen whispered back. He straightened out to stand up through the sunroof and aimed his silenced gun.

A few of the infected had noticed the car idling and had begun to turn in their direction. "Carvour, they see us." Curt whispered, grabbing his gun and tugging on the leg of Owen's pants to get his attention. "Whatever you're about to do, do it now."

Owen made a few minor adjustments to his aim, then fired the gun. The silencer did its job, and the bullet whizzed quietly through the air and connected with a light post at the end of the bridge behind them. A loud clanging noise reverberated around the empty streets. Owen landed back in his seat in the car and closed the sunroof again.

The horde, excited by the noise, all turned in the direction of the sound. They began to move slowly towards the other end of the bridge. Curt and Owen froze in their seat, neither breathing as the Infected began to amble past the car. The growling, moaning sounds that the Infected made were amplified as hundreds shambled past, and Curt felt like his heart was going to burst.

"Carvour." Curt whispered.

"Not now." Owen whispered back.

As the horde thinned out towards the end, Curt began to relax, and he went to put the gun back in the cupholder. The movement caught the eye of one of the Infected, though, and it slammed itself up against the window of the car. Curt jumped in surprise and reached out to grab Owen. Curt's hand gripped the other man's arm, and he yelped in surprise.

"Just drive, Mega!" Owen said, prying Curt's hand off of his arm.

Curt pressed on the gas and the car shot forward again. Curt tried to swerve around the remaining Infected on the bridge, but several of them slammed onto the hood as Curt hit them head-on.

Finally, the car passed through the horde and over the bridge, and the spies were back on solid ground, racing into the woods outside of NYC.

Curt and Owen sped along in silence for what felt like ages. Finally, Curt said. "That was really smart. Shooting the light pole like that."

Owen shrugged. "I had to draw them away, and that seemed like the best option." He was quiet for a moment. "Good driving." He winced slightly at how awkward it sounded; his arm was still burning with excitement from where Curt grabbed him.

"Uh, thanks."

They were quiet again as they wound through the trees, and finally, Curt put a CD in. Rock music fell softly through the speakers and settled around them. It was an album of Queen's greatest hits, and out of the corner of his eye, Curt watched as Owen nodded along to Somebody to Love.

"I like this song." Curt said, in an effort to make conversation.

"Me too." Owen said. "I liked Freddie Mercury a lot. He really loved his cats." There was a beat of silence, then Owen exclaimed, "Fuck! I forgot about my cat! Who's going to feed him?"

Curt looked surprised. "Um, was he staying with anyone while you were here?"

"My sister."

"Then, I'm sure your sister will take care of him." Curt smiled a little. "I wouldn't worry about it."

"Yeah… I guess." Owen relaxed again, but still had a look of sadness. "How much further?"

"We're pulling in now."

Sure enough, a small home appeared out of the trees. It was modern, with two floors, a garage, and bullet-proof windows. Standard-issue safe house, and the best that the American Secret Service had to offer.

Curt pulled the Benz into the driveway and killed the engine. "Let's scope the perimeter, then head inside and regroup." The two men stepped out of the car and raised their guns. They began on the driveway and moved around the house in opposite directions. Both moved slowly, sweeping the area as thoroughly as possible to make sure there were no threats on the property.

When they met once more in the backyard, they deemed it clear and began to walk back towards the front door. When they reached the front yard, Curt went up to the front door and pressed the doorbell. Silence answered.

"Looks like the power's out here, too." Curt knocked on the door. "Ma? Mom!" He knocked louder. "It's Curtis. Open the door!"

The woods were silent.

"Maybe she's in the bunker downstairs." Curt said. He gestured to Owen. "We'll need the crowbar to get in."

Owen eyed Curt. He doubted Mrs. Mega was in the bunker, and he was worried about what they would find inside. "Mega, what if—"

"Just use the crowbar, Carvour. We don't have time for this."

Owen hesitated, then took the crowbar out of his belt loops and braced it against the lock on the door. After a few seconds of strained effort, the wood frame cracked and they door swung open. Owen stood back away from the door.

Curt led the way into the house. "Ma?" He called out. There was only silence. "Let's split up." Curt raised his gun. "I'll check the basement and first floor, you get the second."

Owen nodded, raised his gun, and began to walk upstairs. Meanwhile, Curt opened the door to the basement, flicked his flashlight on, and started to descend. The basement was cold and damp, but quiet. "Mom?" He called again, quietly. At the bottom of the stairs, he swept his flashlight around the room. Boxes of rations and water bottles were stacked in the corner—enough to hide out here for months. In another corner, the door to the bunker was wide open and empty. "Dammit, Ma."

Curt climbed back up to the main level, intending to begin searching it. Before he could, though, he heard Owen call down the stairs. "Mega. You should come up here."

Curt took the stairs two at a time, and found Owen standing in the doorway of the guest bathroom. His back was to Curt, but Curt could tell that something was wrong. As he got closer, Owen stepped out of the way.

Inside the tub, Mom Mega was Infected and staring at Curt with a glassy look. Her Infected brain could not figure out how to get up from the tub, so she merely reached for the two men as she growled and clawed the air.

"Here." Owen handed him a scrap of paper. "This was on the counter."

_"Curtis," _The note read. "_I got bit by a crazy man at the grocery store, and with all of those reports of attacks and people being infected…I don't think I'm going to make it. I love you so much, schmoo. You're a good son."_

"Fuck." Curt said. Then he reared back and punched a hole in the dry wall near the bathroom door. "FUCK!" Tears were welling-up, and his vision blurred as they spilled over.

"Look away." Owen said, raising his gun.

"No." Curt grabbed Owen's arm.

"Mega, we can't leave her like this." Owen said carefully. "It's dangerous to us. And… it's not kind to her."

"I know." Curt said. "But I have to do it. It has to be me."

Owen hesitated for a moment, then said. "OK. What do you need from me?"

"I just need to do this alone."

Owen reached out to pat Curt on the shoulder, then changed his mind. "I'll be in the living room if you need me." He slowly descending the stairs.

Curt shut the bathroom door, locking himself inside with his mom. He slumped on the floor against the door, put his head in his hands, and began to sob softly. He cried for Cynthia and his fellow spies at the agency; he cried for being still alive while his loved ones were dead; he cried for his inability to save anyone. "Mom, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't get here in time." He wept for several minutes, then he stood up slowly and wiped the tears and snot from his face. Through the window above the toilet, Curt watched the wind move through the tress behind the house. Then, leveled his gun at his mother's head.

"God, please forgive me."

He pulled the trigger.

"Here, drink this." Owen said handing Curt a tumbler of whiskey and sitting down next to him. "You'll feel better."

This was the first that the two had spoken since Owen left Curt to take care of his mom. Once the deed had been done, Curt has spent the afternoon digging a grave in the backyard and burying Mrs Mega. Owen had worked on carrying their food and water upstairs, as well as sorting through Curt's clean clothes in the house and claiming everything he thought would fit his taller, thinner frame. He also found a small generator in the basement and hooked it up so that the two men could shower for the first time in several days.

Now, it was night and Curt was sitting in front of the fireplace in the living room while picking at a can of cold Spaghetti O's. The fire danced off of the two men as they sat side-by-side in front of it—their shadows dancing and overlapping behind them.

"Thanks." Curt said, taking the glass and draining it in one swallow. He held the glass out for a refill, and Owen poured him another drink.

They were silent for a moment, watching the fire and sipping their drinks. Finally, Owen said, "I'm sorry, Curt."

Curt nodded. Then, he turned to Owen, a puzzled look on his face. "You never call me Curt."

Owen shrugged. "I think we're well past the formalities of last names. Wouldn't you say?"

Curt smiled a bit. "I guess so… Owen." They sipped in silence again.

"Tell me about her." Owen said, shifting his position on the rug so he could see Curt better.

Curt shrugged. "She was my mom, and she was a good mom. Not much else to tell."

"I don't believe you." Owen said. "What was she like? What was her favorite color? What'd she think of you being a spy?"

Curt drained the rest of his glass and held it out for another pour. While Owen topped him off, Curt began to talk. "She was great. My dad left when I was a baby, so she raised me on her own. Mom used to say 'he was a deadbeat and a criminal, so good riddance'." He sighed. "She was overbearing at times—me being a spy made her worry a lot about my safety. That, and she was always hounding me to find a girlfriend and get married and have kids. I never had the heart to tell her that wasn't going to happen."

Owen watched Curt's eye flick nervously to him and back to the fire. "Just not into the whole marriage scene?"

"Uh, yeah. Plus, it's hard to meet people that aren't also spies working for a non-ally agency. And when you do meet a nice, non-spy…partner…it's hard to keep them because they don't understand what the lifestyle is like." Curt shrugged. "But, that didn't stop my mom from wanting to talk about it."

"She sounds great."

"Yeah." Curt said, smiling to himself. "She was." A comfortable silence settled over them again for a few moments. "What about you? What's your family like?"

"Small. Just like yours." Owen said. "My mom died last year, and my dad died when I was ten."

"I'm sorry." Curt said.

"Me too." He shook his head. "About my mom, that is. My dad was an alcoholic and an abusive asshole that used to kick the shit out of my mom and us kids. He drove home drunk one night and crashed into a light pole. And just like that," Owen snapped his fingers, "We were free." He swirled the ice in his tumbler. "My mom died of cancer last year. It's just my sister and I left."

"What's your sister like?"

Owen's face lit up into a smile. "Emily's amazing. She's a lawyer who fights domestic abuse cases for a non-profit in London. She has a nice husband, Mark, and they're going to have a baby in June." His smile wavered and fell. "If she survives this, that is."

"Owen," Curt put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "You can't think about that. Remember the motto? The one every fucking agent at the American Secret Service recites on almost every mission?"

"Considered alive until proven otherwise."

"Exactly. I bet Emily and Mark are alive and holed up somewhere just like this with your cat." Curt smiled.

Owen very much doubted that was the case, but he appreciated what Curt was doing. "Thanks."

"No problem." Curt's hand was still on Owen's shoulder, and suddenly as they locked eyes, they both became acutely aware of this. Curt lingered for a few seconds, and he swore Owen leaned in closer to him. But, before he could determine whether or not that was real or just his imagination, he dropped his hand. "There's three bedrooms upstairs. I'd like it if neither of us slept in the master—that was Mom's room. You can take the guest room, and I'll take my room."

Curt stood up and set his glass on the coffee table. "Goodnight…Owen."

"Goodnight, Curt."


End file.
